Introduce People with Thoughtful Details
by Captainraychill
Summary: To Hermione Granger's great irritation, Draco Malfoy mocks her newest social skill. One-shot Dramione romantic comedy, inspired by Bridget Jones' Diary. Dramione Couples Remix Fest 2012, 2nd Place, Participants Choice Award. Thanks to my beta, icicle33!


**Author's Starting Notes:**

This story was submitted for the Dramione Couples Remix Fest 2012 on Livejournal and won 2nd Place in the Participants' Choice Award category. Yeah!

The fest's prompts are famous couples in history, literature, movies, etc. My couple was Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy from _Bridget Jones' Diary_. However, my Draco, though inspired by Mark Darcy, has a bit of the cad, Daniel Cleaver, thrown in as well (only his witty parts - not his cad parts).

The story includes several catch phrases and lines from _Bridget Jones' Diary_. Also a tiny line from the series, _Firefly._ Can you identify them?

**Thank you so much to my excellent Beta, icicle33. You made everything better and less adverby. :)**

**Warnings:** Language, light sexual content.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _Bridget Jones Diary_.

* * *

**INTRODUCE PEOPLE WITH THOUGHTFUL DETAILS**

* * *

**The Ministry of Magic Spring Grand Charity Ball**

**Benefitting the National War Widows and Orphans' Fund**

**April 19, 2008**

"Granger."

"Malfoy," Hermione said tersely. She swept a critical gaze over his customary perfection, felt her heartbeat quicken and considered asking him to move slightly across the room. He was blocking her light.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Draco asked cordially. He looked at the gorgeous blonde beside Hermione and smiled.

"Certainly. Liana LaRue, this is Draco Malfoy. Liana is a resident at St. Mungo's and was top of her class at Beauxbatons. Draco owns a highly successful potions company and enjoys Quidditch."

There. Parvati's little trick of introducing people with thoughtful details was brilliant. Hermione was clever enough to think of two interesting facts about everyone she knew in the ballroom, even Glemynestra Fane, and with those facts, she was armed against the nervous butterflies these social events always gave her.

Break into Gringott's, ride a dragon. Fine! Help Harry Potter defeat history's most evil wizard. Piece of chocolate cake! Manage her department with the perfect balance of strength, efficiency and human kindness to her employees. Would you like some chocolate ice cream with your chocolate cake?

But anytime Hermione was required to make small talk at a party, she was somehow reduced to the insecure girl she'd been long ago. The girl with frizzy hair and buck teeth and a head full of obscure facts that made people gawk at her as if she had a little case of the leprosy. No, it was much better to manipulate others into doing all the talking for her, with her oh-so-thoughtful introductions. Even if the effort had just earned her a knowing smirk from Malfoy.

She spent the next five minutes watching him flirt with Liana. Exactly according to plan. The Hermione Not-Talking Plan, that is. Not the alternate, highly successful and annoying Flirt with Humans with Vaginas Plan that Malfoy had enacted for years. Hermione tapped her fingernail against the delicate bell of her wineglass.

Total emotional fuckwit.

Why did he have to be such a tall, handsome, intelligent and charming total emotional fuckwit?

Over her merlot, Hermione studied Draco's reflection in one of the gilt mirrors lining the ballroom. In school, he had been too thin for his height. But now... she let her eyes follow the line of his impeccable dress robes, from his broad shoulder down one strong arm to his large hand.

_You know what they say about large hands._ The first time Lavender Brown had whispered that in the dorm, all the girls had giggled, including Hermione. Even though she'd had absolutely no idea, at the time, what great mystery large hands revealed. Well, she knew now. Her eyes flickered downward.

No! Do NOT look at Draco Malfoy's mirror crotch!

She lifted her gaze to a lavish flower arrangement and forced herself to focus on Draco's conversation with Liana. They were discussing "genuinely tiny knickers". Of course. Hermione had no input on that particular subject since she was, at the moment, wearing scary, stomach-holding-in pants, the kind very popular with grannies the world over. Too much chocolate, too few crunches. Hermione glanced sideways at Draco's profile in the mirror.

As with his body, he had grown into his face. All his hard, patrician angles – the cut of his cheekbone, the slash of his jaw line – were somehow handsome now instead of pointy. He smirked less than he had in school and smiled more. He was teasing instead of taunting. His family had given millions of Galleons to the National War Widows and Orphans' Fund and other worthy charities. Lucius Malfoy had served his time in Azkaban. In ten years, the Malfoys had achieved what Hermione never would have thought possible: respectability. Draco was better known for his rakish, white-blond fringe than the Dark Mark on his forearm.

Five years ago, Harry had told Hermione, in a baffled voice, that Malfoy had called upon The Burrow on Christmas Day to apologize to every person present for his role in the war and his actions while at Hogwarts. She hadn't been there, but she knew, even though he'd never said so, that Draco had meant that apology for her as well. And from the moment of that realization, she had forgiven him for all hurt he'd ever caused her. She'd started to think about him more and more. And, sometimes, she dreamed about him, too.

Liana's bright laughter pulled Hermione out of her thoughts. If Draco dreamed about anyone, it would be someone like Liana who was tall and beautiful and had honey blonde hair and wore a tight, red dress. Hermione studied herself in the mirror. She was short and only passably pretty after hours at the salon. Her hair was the color of a bowl of unsalted party nuts. There was nothing romantic or inspiring about nuts. Not even party nuts. Her gaze moved down to her long, black dress with its white, embroidered collar. She looked like some sort of posh nun.

"Reconsidering, Granger?" Malfoy whispered so close to Hermione's ear that she jumped. She looked up into the mirror to see him leaning over her shoulder, smiling. A warm shiver raced down her arms.

"Reconsidering what?"

"Your attire."

"Not at all. Not all women are French stick insects," she said softly. She wouldn't want to hurt Liana's feelings.

"Still, that's no reason to dress like a nun. And in kitten heels," Draco said, glancing down at her feet. She held very still, refusing to shuffle or try to hide her perfectly serviceable shoes.

"You're so petite," he murmured. "You really should invest in some high heels." He traced the sculptural curve of her silver bracelet with one finger. Hermione's pulse raced beneath the metal. She hoped he didn't notice. When his breath touched her ear, she coughed to hide her gasp.

A second later, Draco stepped back, widening their circle to make room for a new arrival, an elegant woman with silver-shot black hair and a glittering emerald brooch at her throat. A stranger, which meant Hermione would have to talk to her, despite feeling flustered by Malfoy's flirtation and his obviously indiscriminate Vagina Plan.

"Draco Malfoy!" the woman cried out, lifting her hand for a kiss, which Draco gallantly gave.

"Mrs. Greengrass, you look as tempting as ever."

"Scoundrel! Won't you introduce me to your beautiful companions?"

"Of course. Mrs. Leda Greengrass, this is Liana LaRue and Hermione Granger. Mrs. Greengrass was my first crush at the age of nine. She has a Disillusioned shelf in her library dedicated to graphic Italian erotica. Liana has indicated that she is quite open to seduction tonight and likes to visit the shore once a year. Hermione studies toasters for a living and dates a pathetic, ginger weasel."

Despite the fact that there were now at least six topics of potential conversation on the figurative table, tense silence reigned. Hermione glared up at Malfoy. He smiled at her innocently. Only the most observant would see the wicked glint in his eye. He put his hand in his pocket and shifted naturally into an indolent pose favored by male models selling cashmere jumpers.

"I..." Liana began. Her cheeks were bright pink. "I... I do like the shore. I collect sea shells... Mostly bivalves."

"That's..." Mrs. Greengrass began. She shook her head. "That's nice, dear. Hermione, what exactly is a toaster?"

"Draco meant that I work for the Ministry, in the Department of Muggle Relations," Hermione explained. Her voice turned hard as she continued. "And I do not date a pathetic, ginger weasel."

"Oh, come on, Granger," Malfoy said. "The Weasel is biologically ginger and unequivocally pathetic."

"Clarification: we're not dating anymore."

"Since when?" Draco said, his posture snapping straight.

"Since three months ago."

"Three months. You're single?"

His voice sounded almost urgent, and Hermione looked up into his gray eyes, shocked by the intensity of his gaze. His question flew right out of her head. What had it been? Something about graphic Italian erotica? No, no. He'd asked if she was single.

"No," she said.

"Of course not," Draco replied. His expression was completely unreadable for a moment and then he smiled. "So who's the lucky man?"

"His name is John Cleaver."

"And is he here tonight?"

"No, he's in New York on business. He's in publishing, and his house is negotiating a deal with their American partners."

"That's too bad," Draco said. "That he and I couldn't meet. Tell me, Granger, if John Cleaver were here right now, how would you introduce us?"

He was challenging her. She had seen that smug look from him countless times during their school years. Striving to always stay one step ahead of him had made her better than she ever could have been alone. Hermione felt a familiar crackle of adrenaline spark in her fingertips.

"John Cleaver, this is Draco Malfoy," she said. "John is a highly successful publisher and has large hands, and you know what that means. He's fantastic in bed, gives excellent massages and always does the dishes."

"Dear, that's what house-elves are for," Mrs. Greengrass said ambiguously.

Hermione continued, undeterred. "Draco Malfoy is a reformed Death Eater and a mummy's boy. He likes clothes and mirrors and one-night stands. He spends eight hours a day brushing his hair and feeds puppies to snakes in his spare time."

With that, Hermione downed the rest of her wine, turned on her kitten heel and walked away. She heard Draco's rich laughter follow her and cursed the way the sound made her feel inside. She was just _destined_ to get nervous butterflies at these parties.

No matter what.

* * *

**The Grangers' Annual Tarts and Vicars Party**

**July 12, 2008**

"Hermione, you're a tart!"

"Yes, Mum, I know."

"But you never come as a tart," Mrs. Granger said as she walked into Hermione's childhood bedroom. Its blue walls were barely visible behind all the ribbons and trophies. "You always come as a nun or something proper like that. Oh, your cute, little tail's crooked. Let me help."

"This is just wrong," Hermione muttered as she turned and presented her arse to her mother, who was dressed like an old, French whore in a leopard mini-dress, fishnet stockings and shiny, red leather boots. Mum always picked Tart. As usual, Hermione didn't want to think about the implications of that fact.

She looked in her cheval mirror and began to regret her impulsive decision to dress as a Playboy bunny. Not that she looked bad. Actually, she thought she looked rather good. The black satin corset gave her a perfect hourglass figure and pushed up her breasts. Surely, those were someone else's tits, not Hermione Granger's. Her mother adjusted her fluffy, white bunny tail and made sure the back seams of her black stockings were straight.

"It's too bad John couldn't make it," Mrs. Granger said. "He could have been a young Hugh Hefner, in a smoking jacket."

"His company called another meeting."

"I'm beginning to think this boyfriend of yours doesn't exist. It's not right that after all these months we still haven't met him."

"Mum," Hermione pleaded. She'd heard this a thousand times before.

"Fine, fine, here are your ears," her mother said, handing her a pair of satiny bunny ears.

"Thanks," Hermione said. She settled the headband on top of her long, loose curls.

"I've got to go stir the sauce now, you tart, but don't you chicken out. If you come downstairs as a nun, Mummy will have to punish you."

"Oh, God, Mum, shut up!"

As Hermione buttoned on her white collar and bowtie and slipped on her black patent-leather high heels, she thought of Draco Malfoy. She hadn't seen him since the Spring Grand Charity Ball in April, but she had thought (and dreamed) about that night often. Of his whisper near her ear, of his finger touching her bracelet, just millimeters away from her bare skin. He'd flirted with her. He'd never done that before.

He'd also told her she looked like a nun and advised her to invest in some high heels. Translation: she was sexless and short. That had been enough to drive her out of her comfort zone and into Sexy Bunny Town when she'd received her mother's Tarts and Vicars' invitation (covered with images of crosses and lipstick kisses) in the post.

Hermione ran her hands over her sleek bodice and wondered what Draco would think if he saw her like this. Would he want her for his one-night stand? Good thing he wasn't here because she just might say _yes_ to that offer. He was probably at the Manor, counting his gold and brushing his hair. Hermione took a deep breath, fluffed her tail one last time and left the safety of her room.

Among a house full of tarts and vicars, her bunny costume still garnered a great deal of attention. Possibly because of those impressive tits, which couldn't possibly be hers. When her parents' longtime neighbor, "Uncle" Geoffrey honked her tail and then moved his clammy hand to caress her shoulder, she wrenched away and stumbled over her high heels. She reached out blindly for any support and found it against a hard chest. Two firm hands gripped her arms. She was staring at a white robe with intricate golden embroidery on it.

"Are you all right, miss?"

Hermione shivered. She knew that voice, and she knew that cologne. And although she'd never expected to be attracted to His Holiness, the Pope, she was. Desperately so.

Draco Malfoy _would_ come to a Tarts and Vicars Party dressed as close to God Almighty as he possibly could.

"Malfoy, what are you doing here?" she snapped as she tossed her head back and gazed up at him. His trademark fringe swept over his forehead beneath his tall, white pope hat.

"Hermione?" Draco said. He looked down at her, in amazement, his hands tightening on her bare arms. Something flashed in his eyes as he stared at her. His breath quickened. When his eyes moved down to her breasts, she heard his sharp intake of breath and felt one of his hands slide possessively down her back. He pulled her closer.

"Oh, God," they both said at the same time.

"Little 'Mione!" Uncle Geoffrey slurred. He smelled like cooking sherry. He was dressed like a pimp, again, his thinning hair combed over his bald head. Gold chains gleamed on his polyester chest.

"Is this that boyfriend we've been hearing about but've never met?" he asked. "Was beginning to think you'd made him up. Time's running out, you know, old girl. Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

As Geoffrey reached for her shoulder again, Draco glided between them and glared down at the older man with righteous fury and all the divine authority of God's one representative on Earth. When Draco spoke, his voice deep and angry, Hermione imagined a sea parting somewhere.

"My name is Draco Malfoy and-"

"Pope Draco the First," Hermione interrupted, stepping around Draco to stop a confrontation. "Of the French Malfoys. Vicious pope, just horrid. Of course, this is John, Uncle Geoffrey."

Hermione glanced up at Draco and found him transfixed by her bunny tail. She gave it a little wiggle, and his eyes shot up to hers. He blushed, and she smiled.

"John, this is Geoffrey Mulligan. Uncle Geoffrey is my parents' neighbor. He's tried to touch me in a creepy, inappropriate fashion since I was thirteen, and he likes putting together puzzles. John," she said, now addressing Geoffrey," is my boyfriend. We met in a pub one night and shagged in the taxi on the way home. Twice, actually, due to a bit of traffic. He also collects rare coins."

Uncle Geoffrey looked like a dead fish, his mouth hanging open. Draco assumed his role with ease, sliding his arm around Hermione's corseted waist and pulling her close to his side.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mulligan," he said. "I'll thank you to quit fondling my lovely girlfriend. That's my job now, and I have it well in hand. Hermione, my rabbit-"

"Bunny," she muttered.

"Hermione, my bunny, you wanted to show me all the ribbons and trophies in your room?"

"Yes, John, right this way." She took Draco's hand so he wouldn't have a chance to ogle her arse and bunny tail as she led him upstairs. She ushered him into her bedroom.

"Thanks, Draco. He's harmless but quite annoying."

The second Hermione shut the door, she was plucked right off her feet. She gave an embarrassing squeal as her axis tilted, and she threw her arms around Draco's neck. _He's carrying me to bed!_ If she weren't about to hyperventilate, she would have laughed at the ridiculous scene they must have presented: the Pope carrying his blushing, Playboy bunny bride to a bed made up with Albert Einstein sheets.

"Draco, what –"

Without warning, he tossed her onto the mattress and climbed over her body on his hands and knees. He was resplendent in the late afternoon sunlight – his hair, robes and hat all brilliant white.

"Look at me," Draco rasped. He ran his fingers through her hair, gently cradling her head in one hand. She couldn't help but close her eyes, melting at the pleasure of his touch.

"No, Hermione, look at me." She forced herself to stare up at him and was stunned by the desire she saw burning in his eyes.

"Please tell me you're not with John Cleaver anymore," he whispered. "Tell me you're single."

"I...I can't talk to you about anything when you have that hat on," she said. Draco took off his pope hat and tossed it on the floor. He slipped off her headband with its bunny ears and threw it down, too.

"Hermione," Draco said. He leaned in very close. They were an inch from a kiss. With each labored breath, her breasts brushed against his chest. She could feel the heat of him everywhere. She wished she could feel his hardness, too, but he was still on his knees. She wanted to pull him down onto her, to thrust up and make him moan.

"Are you single?" he repeated, his voice strained.

Hermione answered, "No. John's in a meeting. An unavoidable meeting."

Draco groaned. He dropped his head into the crook of her shoulder, breathing like a runner. She felt his fingers tighten in her hair, as if he wouldn't let go. She waited, knowing what she wanted him to do, what she wanted to do, even though it was wrong. Even though it went against all good judgment.

With a low growl, Draco pushed away from her and left the bed. He stalked to the far corner of the room and fought to regain his composure, placing one hand on the wall, his back to her.

"Do me a favor," he snapped. "Sit up and pull a blanket over yourself, or I won't be able to stay in control."

"Fine," Hermione said, wrapping a sheet around her shoulders and body. She moved to the end of the bed, sitting up as straight as if she were in the Minister's office. She wished her heartbeat would stop racing. "All right. Done."

Draco turned, looked at her and sighed. "Not much better, but I guess it will have to do." He paced the room, stopping every thirty seconds or so to study one of her trophies.

"Second place, Granger?" he asked, indicating the brass plaque on a science award.

"I had pneumonia that spring. And uncooperative rats. What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"Harry invited me, but then he couldn't make it. Some Auror rubbish. But the truth is... The truth is I just wanted to see you. I actually thought you'd be dressed as a nun," Draco said with a bitter laugh. "Imagine my surprise when you were right there, in my arms, in some sort of sex bunny costume."

"Playboy bunny," she corrected.

"Muggle?"

"Yes."

"Nice."

"Normally, I do dress as a nun," Hermione admitted. "But someone told me such attire was unbecoming. He also told me to invest in some high heels." She dipped her feet out from under the sheet to show him her new shoes.

Draco looked at her feet for a moment and then turned his attention back to her substandard trophy. "Yes, those are smashing," he said, without looking at her or her shoes again. "Won't it be great when you learn to walk in them?"

"Exactly," she scoffed.

"I think it's best if I go downstairs now, Granger," Draco said, looking at the door.

"Don't," she said, without thinking. "I mean – there's one thing I don't understand. And you know how I hate not understanding something."

"Go on."

"This is going to sound rude, but why do you care if I'm single? I thought you..."

"Say what you're thinking, Granger."

"I thought you slept with just about anyone."

"And how did you learn this?"

"From the papers."

"Because, from personal experience, you know you can always trust the _Prophet_," Draco said in a low voice.

"And from Liana," Hermione challenged. "You slept with her that night, and you never rang her."

Liana had sailed into Hermione's office the Monday morning after the Spring Grand Charity Ball, positively glowing. She had raved about Draco's performance in bed, about how he'd licked her in places she'd "never been licked before" and how he had given her about eighteen orgasms. To Hermione's everlasting shame, she'd asked Liana to tell her all about it, every sordid detail. She preferred to think of it as mere gossip. But she'd known it was something more from the start, and she'd felt more than a little dirty when her knickers had grown wet as she'd listened.

Hermione had thought of Draco's sexual prowess that afternoon (twice) that evening (three times) and many more times in the weeks to follow. Even as Liana started to fret and cry over Malfoy not ringing her. Even as they ate a carton of chocolate ice cream and drank a bottle of Bailey's one night and wrote a tearful ballad called, "What a Total Emotional Fuckwit You Are, Stupid Head".

"I did sleep with Liana," Draco said. "And I never rang her. Just like I told her I wouldn't. She knew going in it was a one-night stand. I made it quite clear."

"That's not what she said," Hermione argued. "She pined for weeks. Months even."

Draco shrugged, and Hermione had to admit that if he had truly told Liana that, then the girl was an idiot for expecting something more.

"And I'll make it quite clear to you, Hermione Granger," he said as he leaned down to pick up his pope hat and her bunny ears. "That I do not sleep with women who have boyfriends or husbands. Or women who have girlfriends or wives, for that matter. Regardless of how much I might want to. I am _not_ a cheater."

So it was true. There had been wild speculation about why the Malfoy-Parkinson wedding had been called off over five years ago, just as ribbons were being wrapped around the bouquets. Rumors spoke of infidelity with more fingers pointing at Pansy than at Draco. He had been betrayed.

"This is Pansy Parkinson," Hermione whispered. "Pansy is a Slytherin who enjoys shopping and snobbery. She's also a lowdown cheater."

Draco smiled at Hermione, but his eyes were sad.

"Something like that," he said. He walked to the bed and placed her bunny ears back on her head. True to his word, he didn't even stroke her hair after he adjusted each satin ear and stepped back. He was about to put on his hat, when he paused.

"Granger," he said quietly. "I know a cheater when I see one. Unavoidable meetings, business trips, late nights, weekends away."

Hermione stiffened, feeling the leashed energy she associated with defense. She had never mentioned John's late nights to Draco or the semi-monthly, weekend, team-building retreats. She and John hadn't had sex in five weeks. He'd been too tired after working fourteen hour days. And she hadn't wanted to contemplate the possibility. She hadn't wanted to find out she'd been a fool. She abhorred feeling foolish.

"Don't project Pansy's shortcomings onto my boyfriend," she said coldly.

"Fine," Draco said. "Just answer one question."

"What?"

He grabbed the end of her sheet and slowly pulled it away from her body, until her bunny costume was exposed. Hermione crossed her legs but resisted the urge to cover her cleavage.

"Did he see you in this outfit and not make love to you?"

Hermione didn't answer. She _had_ modeled this for John. He'd zipped her into it, but they hadn't made love. Migraine. Caused by nerves before his critical presentation.

When Draco spoke again, he sounded as if he were making a vow.

"If you were mine, Hermione, nothing on earth could stop me from making love to you all night long if I saw you in this sexy bunny costume."

With that, Draco put on his pope hat and left Hermione – breathless, confused and filled with longing - on her childhood bed.

* * *

**T****he Ministry of Magic Autumn Grand Charity Ball**

**Benefitting St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

**September 13, 2008**

"Harry Potter, this is Glemynestra Fane," Hermione said. "Glemynestra is a new grandmother and raised prize-winning turnips as a teenager. Harry is an Auror and appeared on his fourth Chocolate Frog card this year."

Ten minutes later, Glemynestra moved toward the buffet. The two friends resumed a real conversation when Hermione announced, "I've decided I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect."

"Congratulations," Harry said. "I know the bad man is your cheating ex, but what's an American stick insect?"

"Oh, the bitch he cheated with. American. Tall. Very, very thin. American stick insect.

"I see. But I thought you'd already moved on, you know, mentally," Harry said.

"It's a process," Hermione said as she took a sip of her chardonnay.

The first part of the process had been to escape her denial. Malfoy had lifted the veil the day of the Tarts and Vicars party, but she'd let it fall right back over her eyes, accepting John's excuses. She'd been unable to discard her illusions until she was ready to admit her failure and expose his lies. The second part of the process had been separation and complete division of assets. That step had been quite easy since they'd only dated about six months. He'd returned the books he'd borrowed from her with round, coffee mug stains on the covers. She'd returned three shirts, some hair gel and his electric toothbrush, which she'd dipped into Crookshanks' dirty litter box sand the night before. Part Three had involved chocolate and liquor. Part Four had involved salad without croutons and exercise. Which had lead directly to tonight.

Part Five: Truly Moving on by Looking Damn Fit. Hermione glanced at her reflection in one of the ballroom's mirrors and smiled.

She didn't look like a posh nun in kitten heels. Neither did she look like a sex bunny with a cotton tail. But, with a little assistance from Parvati, she did look gorgeous, if she did say so herself. Her hair was twisted up into an artful cascade of brown curls. Her eyes were smoky with liner. Her dress was a sheath of red silk, her heels were high _and_ she knew how to walk in them.

Seven more thoughtful introductions between Harry and others, and Hermione abandoned him, circulating the ballroom to escape his celebrity. As she made a wide orbit around the dance floor, she saw _him_ for the first time in months. He had discarded his papal raiment and wore elegant, black dress robes again. He was handsome, his pale hair perfect. He was surrounded by blondes, just like Hugh Hefner. Those poor, sweet, little bunnies didn't stand a chance against Hermione Granger.

She downed her wine, turned on her high heel and made a beeline toward him. She was only vaguely aware of the crowd parting for her, in awe of her fierce determination. Draco saw her and froze, the shock on his face undisguised for a moment before his smooth mask fell back into place.

"Granger," he said tersely.

"Malfoy. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"Certainly," he said, swirling his tumbler of Firewhiskey. "They're beautiful triplets, as you can see. I can't keep their names straight so I always call the one on the right Erin."

"I'm Liskin," said the one on the right.

"And the one on the left Liskin."

"I'm Erin," said the one on the left.

"Ah, so the one in the middle must really be Loren," Draco said. "Got one right. Or should I say, correct."

"Pathetic," said Hermione, shaking her head. She felt a curl fall out of its pins and land softly on her shoulder. Draco stared at it for a moment before taking a long sip of his Firewhiskey and continuing.

"Collectively, the girls are from Ireland. They model lingerie, enjoy Muggle hippity-hop music and, God willing, will all warm my bed tonight. I plan to let them know that I will not be ringing them afterward, neither collectively nor individually."

"Well..." said Loren, insulted.

"Girls, this is Hermione Granger," Draco continued. "She's a famous war heroine and was awarded the Order of Merlin First Class. She occasionally dresses up as a sexy rabbit and has a wanker of a boyfriend who cheats on her shamelessly. She also likes to knit."

Draco finished his drink and signaled for another. Hermione realized that if she didn't stop him soon, he'd be pissed as well as angry.

"You're wrong," she said. "John doesn't cheat on me."

"You're blind, Granger."

"He doesn't cheat on me. Anymore."

Draco was sober enough to catch her meaning immediately. He looked down at her, his gray eyes clear and sharp.

"Explain."

"You were right. I broke up with him. I'm single."

"Single?"

"For now," she teased.

"Oh, no, you don't, Granger," he said. If he was trying to sound menacing, he failed due to the growing hope and happiness evident on his face. Liskin glanced between the two of them and grinned.

"Draco," the triplet said. "Why don't you introduce Hermione to us again? Because your first try was total crap."

"Certainly," he said softly and cleared his throat. He handed his whiskey to Erin and ran his hand through his hair, seeming nervous.

"This is Hermione Granger," he began, looking down at the ground. "She's a war heroine and the bravest woman I've ever known. She's also good and kind and the brightest witch of this age. Or any other age really. I was cruel to her when we were young. I called her dreadful names. I want to beg her forgiveness for hurting her. I'm the one hurting now, and I deserve it. I want her so much that it hurts." At this Draco shut his eyes and paused. When he opened them, he glanced at Hermione for a second before looking down again, his face flushing.

"But she's not perfect," he said quickly. "No one's perfect. She's pants at flying, and she doesn't like Quidditch, which is ridiculous. And she's got this awful Kneazle that looks like butterscotch vomit."

"Hey!" Hermione cried out.

"Well, it does," Draco said, looking her right in the eye. "And you have some bizarre ideas about house-elves. And you're stubborn as hell. But what I'm trying to say, quite inarticulately... is that I love you. I've loved you for years and was afraid to tell you. Or wasn't free to tell you. And now that you're free, I can't afford to be afraid anymore. I want to tell you that I love you. Just as you are."

Hermione stared at Draco, her dark eyes wide. She hadn't expected this. She'd expected sex – wonderful, mind-blowing sex - with the possibility that Draco might make it clear he wouldn't ring her the next day. At best, she'd hoped they might start dating. She had not been prepared for pleas of forgiveness, for confessions of love and long devotion. For the surprising gift of Draco Malfoy's heart. The same hope and happiness that had lit up his face earlier curled inside her, warm and glowing. Waiting.

"She also looks fucking gorgeous in red and enjoys reading," Draco added in an offhand manner.

But Hermione could hear the slight tremor in his voice. Her silence terrified him. In the next instant, impulsive but absolutely certain of her course, she launched herself up into his arms, her feet dangling, and kissed him.

Too stunned to move, Draco just held her against him for a moment. Then he moaned and stumbled back against the damask wall behind him. His hand stroked up into her curls, scattering pins, as his tongue swept into her mouth. The warm glow inside Hermione exploded, becoming a hot, ardent fire that rushed through her body. She arched her back and pressed against Draco's erection, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips.

"God, Hermione, I love you. Please forgive me."

"Draco, I forgave you a long time ago."

"I want you so much."

"I want you, too. Don't stop touching me."

They spoke these passionate words between kisses as the entire ballroom watched in dazed, voyeuristic wonder. All except for Harry Potter who was grinning because he had planned the whole thing by: A. Asking Malfoy to the Tarts and Vicars Party and B. Not Showing Up There Himself. Brilliant plan.

When Draco's large hand lifted one of Hermione's knees and slipped under the red silk of her gown in search of the genuinely tiny knickers she wore, she realized that they should, as the phrase went, get a room.

"Draco," Hermione panted. "I'm all for wall sex. But maybe not here, in the middle of the fundraiser. Aren't there some walls in the manor?"

"Yes, about four hundred, and some beds and couches and fur rugs and garden swings. Hold on tight, sweetheart," he whispered. As if they could possibly hold each other closer.

"Good night," Liskin said.

"Have good sex," Erin said.

"Lots of it," Loren added.

"Thank you. We will," Hermione said cordially. "It was so nice to meet you."

The second before Draco Disapparated them home, she tightened her grip on her charmed purse. After all, she wouldn't want to lose the sexy bunny costume. Not when her new boyfriend had a certain vow to fulfill.

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

**Author's Ending Notes:**

**Direct quotes from _Bridget Jones' Diary _include:**

-Introduce people with thoughtful details

-Emotional fuckwit

-Genuinely tiny knickers

-Scary, stomach-holding in pants, the kind popular with grannies the world over

-Time's running out, you know, old girl. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

-I've decided not to be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect.

-What I'm trying to say, most inarticulately...

-Just as you are.

**The direct quote from _Firefly _is:**

-Have good sex.

* * *

**Thank you for reading _Introduce People with Thoughtful Details_**

**Love, Captainraychill**

* * *

**As always, reviews are welcomed! :)**


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